


Rematched

by ginnyred



Series: Football & the Classics [2]
Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Classical References, Football | Soccer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18497845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyred/pseuds/ginnyred
Summary: Marti offers him a tentative smile. “I told the guys I would askyouif you wanted to play?”Oh.Nico was not expectingthis.“If you don't want to it's fine,” Marti adds quickly, and it looks a bit like he's already regretting his offer. Nico wonders what it is that Marti read on his face.





	Rematched

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is technically a sequel to "Matched", though it works as a standalone too.
> 
> Warning: graphic descriptions of football - this time with a brave attempt at a plot (I know, I'm as shocked as you are).

“Il Peccio can't play next week.”

Nico turns his head to the side so he can at least try to look at Marti's face. He's lying on top of Marti on the sofa, head hiding in the crook of his neck as they're watching the match on Nico's tv – well, Marti is watching the match, Nico is this close to falling asleep.

“How come?” he asks, his voice croaky and low. He hasn't spoken in a while.

“I'm not sure.” Marti snorts. “Gio says he's organising a bacchanal.”

Nico raises his eyebrows.

“Is it bad that I can't tell if it's a joke or not?”

“I think it's a joke.” Marti laughs, though he doesn't sound too sure. “Not that it doesn't sound like him, but I think he would have at least _tried_ to invite us? Like, who's he supposed to be doing this bacchanal _with?_ ”

Nico grins.

“Would we have gone? If he'd invited us?”

Marti rolls his eyes and pretends to slap Nico's cheek.

“Shut up,” he says. He blushes a bit too, and Nico congratulates himself on a job well done. It's getting harder and harder to get Marti to blush these days. “Point is, we need a fifth player.”

“Have you asked Galvani and his crowd?”

“We're playing _against_ Galvani and his crowd.”

“Oh, right.”

Nico thinks for a moment. He gets half an idea, but it's so ridiculous he starts giggling to himself.

“What?”

“Nothing, I'm just picturing you guys playing alongside the Villa boys.”

“Yeah, so Canegallo can sue me for splashing dirt on his three hundred euro boots.” Marti snorts. “No, thanks. I'm good.”

“You could always ask the girls?” Nico offers, after some thinking. “Maybe one of them feels like playing.”

Marti raises an eyebrow.

“Is this about making a statement?”

“I thought it was about needing a player?”

Marti smiles.

“Yeah, I suppose. Even though... well.” He pauses, a bit unsure. Nico senses the mood shift and pulls himself up on his arms so he can look at Marti better. Marti offers him a tentative smile. “I told the guys I would ask _you_ if you wanted to play?”

_Oh._

Nico was not expecting _this._

“If you don't want to it's fine,” Marti adds quickly, and it looks a bit like he's already regretting his offer. Nico wonders what it is that Marti read on his face. “I'm sure we can find someone else. It's not like-”

“It's not that I don't want to...” Nico says slowly. He lowers himself down again, supported only by his elbows, so he and Marti can be closer. He hopes it can make the rejection easier. “It's just... I really can't play. You wouldn't ask me if you knew how bad I was.”

“Oh.” Marti laughs, he sounds relieved. It's not the reaction Nico was expecting and it makes him uncomfortable. “If it's just that, I mean, we can't play either – you've seen us, right?”

Nico sighs.

“Yeah, and you haven't.”

“Ni, no one cares. It's just a random match, not even a tournament thing. It's for fun.”

“I told you I can't play. Why can't you just take my word for it?”

It's harsh and Nico regrets it almost immediately. It's his insecurities speaking, and he hates how Marti's eyes go wide and for a moment he seems unable to speak. He did that, he made Marti look like that.

Nico pulls himself up and sits back. Contact is hardly comforting right now.

“Sorry, I-”

“Nono, I-” Marti clears his throat. “I didn't mean to push. As I said, we can find someone else. It's fine. Not a problem.”

The fact that he made Marti apologise for something _he_ did makes Nico feel even worse.

“I'm sorry,” Nico says. He can feel himself closing off, and hates it with everything he has.

“It's fine.” Marti offers him a tiny smile. “Do you want to go to bed?”

Nico shrugs.

“No, you were watching the match.”

“I don't really care about the match.”

 _You made me not care about the match_ , is what Nico hears. It's not what Marti said, not by a long shot, but Nico can't help himself. He always ends up being a disappointment, one way or another.

“I'm going to bed,” Nico announces, standing up abruptly, and starts making his way to the bedroom without looking back. Mostly just so he doesn't have to see Marti's face as he watches him walk away.

*

It's late. Definitely past midnight.

Marti came to bed soon after Nico did, but they did not speak. Nico pretended he was asleep and Marti switched off the bedside lamp and crawled into bed without a word.

Nico did not fall asleep. From the way Marti is tossing and turning restlessly at his right, Marti didn't either. When Nico turns to look at him, he's not really surprised to see Marti facing him. He can just make out his eyes in the dark. He looks worried.

“I'm sorry,” Nico says. It takes effort to get the words out. “I just... I'm sorry, Marti.”

“It's alright.”

Nico feels the bed springs creak as Marti gets closer. He feels him touch his cheek gently, and Nico exhales loudly. They meet half-way in the middle of the bed: Nico burrows in Marti's arms and sighs. He wishes he could cry right now, but it doesn't seem like it's going to happen.

Marti strokes Nico's hair gently, Nico's head on his chest, his other arm circling his waist, holding Nico close. Holding Nico together too, but Nico doesn't know if Marti knows that.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Marti asks, his voice calm and level. Reassuring.

“Not really,” Nico says. It's the truth, he thinks, so he's surprised to find himself elaborating. “It's just... I don't want you to be ashamed of me.”

“I'm not ashamed of you. Why would I be?”

It helps that it's a genuine question – it sounds like one. Marti is not offended or horrified by Nico's reaction, he's trying to understand. He always does.

“Because I can't play. Not like you and the guys do. It's like I don't...”

 _It's like I don't really belong_ , Nico can't quite bring himself to say.

Marti holds him a bit tighter at that.

“You can draw,” he offers gently. He keeps stroking Nico's hair with the same rhythm, twisting his fingers in Nico's curls. “And Elia can draw too. And even Gio and Luca can do better than I can with a pen.” He pauses briefly, as if to collect his thoughts. “And both you and Gio can play an instrument. I can't. Ask him, when I used to play the flute in middle-school the neighbours would threaten to call the cops.” Nico snorts and it makes Marti smile. “This is not... we don't all have to do and like exactly the same things, do we?”

“Well, no. But-” Nico hesitates. He shakes his head and sighs deeply. “I'm just not very good at being bad at things, I think. Not with you.”

“Not with me,” Marti repeats. It's an invitation to explain, if Nico feels like it.

Nico hides his face in the crook of Marti's neck.

“I want to do the things that make you happy. And do them well.” His voice comes out muffled and strained, and Nico is almost relieved when his eyes get wet. He closes them and lets the tears spill, like they are proof that his feelings make sense, somehow. “For you.”

“Hey, hey.” Nico did not make a sound, he doesn't think, but Marti probably felt Nico's tears against his neck. He turns and kisses his forehead gently. “Ni, love. You make me happy just by being here.”

Marti rarely calls him _love_.

The few times he did – always late at night while they were talking in bed like right now – are now firebranded in Nico's memory. It's that, maybe, that gives him the courage to look up. Marti is smiling at him.

“Hi,” Marti says, and Nico can feel his own lips curve upwards.

“Hi.”

“I love you.”

That, instead, Marti is very generous with – though it still makes Nico's heart ache like the first time Marti ever said it. Marti grins, and Nico presses their lips together, his hands holding Marti's face, and hopes it's enough of a reply.

*

“But if, theoretically, I wanted to try...”

Marti's phone says it's three am.

They're still not sleeping, though it's not because of overwhelming feelings anymore: the sleepiness is just... gone. The banality of it is weirdly reassuring.

Nico keeps tracing abstract patterns on Marti's skin, from his left shoulder to his wrist, almost like he's drawing a tattoo. He's propped up on his elbow for support. Not the most comfortable position, perhaps, but Nico is high on the feeling of having Marti chase his fingers almost involuntarily whenever he slows down. So he doesn't really care.

“Try what?” Marti asks on an exhale. His voice is quiet and content, and Nico feels encouraged to explain.

“This football thing. Say I wanted to try it.”

“You don't have to, though,” Marti says. His tone is more serious now, but he's still relaxed. He's not afraid of Nico's reaction.

Nico lets out a deep breath. He stops tracing patterns up and down Marti's arm and laces their fingers together instead.

“I know. But say I wanted to, like.” Nico pauses, looking for the right words. He doesn't want to sound melodramatic. He's not _feeling_ melodramatic. “Say I wanted to check if it's true that the world doesn't end when I'm bad at something.”

 _At something you care about_ , Nico doesn't say. But he doesn't think he needs to.

Marti snorts a laugh.

“Right.”

“And to do that, say I wanted to try football... would you teach me?”

Nico's eyes are used to the dark by now, and he's glad of it because he gets to watch Marti's face open up in the brightest of smiles.

“Sure,” he agrees easily. He's grinning, and Nico grins back.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“How much time do I have?”

“A week. The match is next Saturday.” Marti's voice is warm and reassuring, and Nico feels like it's embracing him, enveloping him like a blanket. “It's enough, you'll see.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Nico sighs, relieved, and lies back down to rest his head on Marti's shoulder. Once they're settled comfortably, Marti kisses the top of Nico's head and Nico smiles.

“Do you want to sleep?” Nico asks against the skin of Marti's neck.

“Not really. You?”

“Nah.”

“Can you do that thing again...?” Marti looks down at their entwined hands. “It was nice.”

Nico laughs fondly and starts trailing his hand along Marti's arm again. He feels stupidly proud when Marti sighs and melts into his touch almost immediately.

Nico never wants to fall asleep again.

*

“Okay, so. This is your goal.” Marti marks the spot using his backpack and hoodie. “The ball's mine, you're defending for now. That's what you'll be doing on Saturday, so it makes sense to start with this. Also, it's good 'cause you've played defense before.”

Nico raises his eyebrows.

“In foosball.”

“Same difference. Ready?”

Nico snorts.

“No? What are the rules here?”

“You defend,” Marti says with a shrug. “You try to stop me from scoring in your goal.”

“Yeah, but... how?”

Marti grins.

“Any way you can without breaking my ankles.”

Nico is not ready.

They're at his grandma's, in the backgarden. The house is still mostly unfurnished, but at least the neighbours are fewer and none of them are kids. Earlier this afternoon, they tried setting up in Nico's garden, but before they could even begin to play they found themselves surrounded by a small crowd of pleading middle-schoolers who wanted to play too.

(Marti told them they were leaving when it was blatantly obvious they had just arrived. The kids weren't amused.)

Marti positions the ball a few meters from the goal and waits for Nico to stand in front of it. Nico does, though his legs feel very weak right now, a bit like they do when he comes back from a run.

Except he hasn't even started running yet.

Marti smiles gently. He's wearing his AS Roma jersey – the one with “Rametta” written on the back and the number 10. The colours should not go well with his hair, but weirdly they do. He looks lovely, Nico tries focusing on that.

“You're still sure you want to do this, yeah?” Marti asks. His tone is very casual, like he thinks Nico might be offended by having his resolve questioned.

Nico has been questioning his own resolve since breakfast.

“Not sure, no,” Nico says honestly. “But I still think it's worth a try.”

“Fine. We can stop anytime, okay?”

Nico nods. The fact that he doesn't even think of cracking a joke about how he might cry afterwards just goes to show that he's not feeling his best.

Marti starts slow. Passing the ball from foot to foot, inching closer to the goal and moving away again whenever Nico makes a half-hearted attempt at a tackle.

It's not slow enough that Nico feels condescended to, but it's slow. Nico has seen the boys play and it's never like this. Marti is giving him time to adjust. Nico breathes out.

It's just Marti. Him and Marti. There's nothing to be afraid of.

“Don't hold back, Ni. I promise I won't break if you, like... brush against me by accident.” Marti smiles, a bit cheeky. “That's allowed, you know?”

That makes Nico smile too.

“By accident?” he repeats. It's a bit too shaky to really sound teasing, but the intent is clear enough.

“Or not,” Marti offers with a grin. He opens his arms, the ball under the sole of his right foot. An invitation to come closer. “Either way, I'm waiting.”

It feels better already.

Nico's slightly more decisive tackle still misses, as Marti moves the ball before Nico has a chance to touch it, but it's the mood that's different.

Nico ends up stepping on Marti's foot and they both laugh. Marti glances around quickly to check they're still alone and pulls Nico closer by the collar of his shirt. He pecks him on the lips once, quickly, before moving away again.

Grinning like an idiot.

_Catch me if you can._

As Nico starts chasing him, it barely feels like football anymore.

*

“You aren't half bad.”

They're still in the backgarden, lying on their backs in the grass, Marti trying to spin the ball on top of his forefinger like basketball players do and failing miserably. He laughs when his tenth consecutive attempt is even more disastrous than those preceding it.

Nico can't help but smile.

“Really. You're, like, perfectly average. And I mean that in the best way.” Marti steals a glance at Nico, who snorts a laugh, amused. “You've got a ton of endurance too.”

“Pretty sure it's you who's got very little,” Nico replies – but it's so warm Marti can't even pretend to be mad.

“Yeah, probably.” Marti laughs and sets the ball down to look at Nico lying next to him. “How did it go? Not too bad, right?”

“Yeah,” Nico agrees, his tone a bit wondering. “Yeah. It was fine. It felt... normal. I didn't think it could.”

“Can I ask you something?” Marti says quickly. It's obvious that, whatever it is, it's been on his mind for a while.

Nico rolls his eyes.

“Marti, just ask. If you open with that it just sounds ominous.”

“Right, sorry.” Marti offers him an apologetic smile. “Why is it that you said you're bad? You're not. And it looks like you've played... before. A bit at least.”

“Well, it's hard to avoid football in P.E.,” Nico says with a shrug. “And as a child it was, like, the first thing anyone suggested we play. It's just... the football crowd. It was always so...” Nico waves his hands in the air a bit uselessly, as if to explain. “You know?”

Marti's gaze on him is peculiarly intense.

“You mean because you liked boys too?”

“I don't know. Maybe? It's not just that, though. It's more, like. There's a certain idea of being a guy that goes together with playing football and liking football and I... I never felt like I belonged. They didn't want me and I didn't want _them_ , so I started keeping away.” Nico gives Marti a tiny smile. “I'm sure it was different for you.”

“I think I just liked it more.” Marti shrugs. “I liked it more and, because of that, I put up with a lot of shit. Still do.” He sighs. “You've been at the matches, I mean.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I have.”

Nico shakes his head, thinking of the looks and mutters he and Filippo got as they were chatting on the stands during the last five-a-side tournament. Of how careful he and Marti always have to be there – just in case someone might be looking, or listening.

Marti reaches for him with his hand and strokes Nico's cheek softly. Nico smiles and puts his own hand over Marti's, keeping it in place.

“Also, I appreciate the encouragement, but I haven't played in years, and I know it shows. Yes, _I know,_ ” Nico adds, rolling his eyes, as Marti was about to interrupt. “I may not be the worst ever, but, like. We've also not done anything that required much technique today, did we?”

“ _Technique,_ ” Marti repeats, putting up an exaggerated contemplative tone. He flashes Nico a disarming grin that makes him weak in the knees. Thank God he's lying down. “We might need an expert for that.”

*

“You're a bunch of hopeless cases and yes, I mean _all_ of you.”

It's Wednesday afternoon and they're at the pitch to practice before the match. Elia welcomed Nico's request with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“Your funeral, Fares,” was all he said, but Nico could tell he was pleased.

Possibly not to make Nico feel singled out, Elia announced that “team training” was needed and brought everyone along to “teach you assholes a thing or two about football”.

They've been stuck on “how to curl the ball during a free kick” for the past forty minutes. Gio is in goal as usual, as he's _this_ close to falling asleep as he waits for a ball that actually spins as expected.

Nico has been having a lot of trouble getting the ball to cooperate, but he finds comfort in the fact that at least he's not the only one.

“Marti, what is that?” Elia asks, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Marti pauses, standing a good three meters from the ball, ready for his turn.

“My run-up?”

“If you want to send the ball to Mars, maybe.”

“Shorter?”

“ _Please._ ”

Marti takes a couple of steps forward and goes for the free kick. His shot does take on a spin, but it's very weak, and Gio has no trouble at all blocking the ball, as it ends up in his arms without him even having to move.

“Thanks for the pass,” Gio grins and Marti shows him the finger.

It's Luca's turn next. Nico is sitting near the sideline, leaning back on his arms, and he watches as Elia goes over the whole thing with Luca once again. He's a bit rough but surprisingly patient – Nico was not expecting it.

Marti sits beside him and lets their arms brush against each other. He smiles when Nico turns to look at him.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Nico says. He's nervous, but he trusts Marti. And the guys.

“You can hardly do worse than me,” Marti offers encouragingly.

Luca takes a shot and they both turn to look at the pitch.

Marti's eyebrows shot up when Luca's ball doesn't take on any spin at all, hits the fence to the right side of the goal full force, and bounces back a bit pathetically to Luca, who stops it with his sole and lets out an embarrassed “ooops”.

“Well, you can hardly do worse than Luchino,” Marti amends with a grimace.

Nico is pretty sure he _can_ , but he doesn't say that as he stands up and walks over to where Elia is positioning the ball for him to try the free kick.

“Ready?” Elia asks with a smile. His tone is way gentler than the one he used with Marti. Nico would be grateful – or amused, or maybe even a little bit offended – if he wasn't this nervous.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Eyes on the near post. Half instep. Don't hit the ball from below. Outside-in. All clear?”

Nico looks up and his eyes met Gio's, who's waiting for him to shoot. He sees him roll his eyes at Elia and they both try not to giggle.

“What?” Elia asks, confused, looking between the two of them.

“Nothing. All clear.”

“Right. Go on, then.”

Nico feels a bit like he's dreaming, as he prepares for his run-up. The ball looks almost blinding, impossibly white against the green of the pitch. Nico is hyper-aware of his own breathing. Of the wet sound his boots make as they hit the muddy ground.

One step, two, three.

The distictive smacking sound of his right foot hitting the ball.

Nico is almost afraid to watch, but Marti's faint “oh!” in the background forces him to look up. The ball is fast and has taken on a decent spin – but it's way too high. Almost two meters over the crossbar.

Honestly, he expected worse, but he still looks over to Elia with a guilty smile.

“Did I hit it from below?” he asks.

Elia rolls his eyes at him, and Nico looks back to the sideline.

Luca is sprawled out where Nico was sitting before, right next to Marti, his arms and legs open wide, looking utterly defeated. Marti, on the other hand, looks like he's trying not to laugh.

“Galvani is going to be so smug on Saturday,” Luca announces glumly, as Nico, Elia, and Gio walk over and sit next to them on the grass in a semicircle. “At least if il Peccio was here he could pray Zeus on our behalf. No offence, Nico.”

“None taken.” Nico smiles. “I can pray Zeus too, if you think it can help.”

Luca pulls himself up on his elbows and shots Nico a sceptical look.

“I don't think Zeus likes you that much.”

“What's not to like?” Nico asks, in the most exaggerated offended tone he can manage. Marti snorts and Nico winks at him.

“Well... how is your Greek going these days?”

“... ah, that.” Maybe Nico is starting to see the point. “Well, I've got six. If Scoppini is feeling generous, that is.”

“... yeah. I've got five, so.”

“But if we're talking grades, we can always ask Agamemnon and Menelaus over here.” Nico grins and gestures to where Marti and Gio are sitting next to each other, just opposite him.

“ _Hey!_ ” Marti replies offended, exactly as Gio frowns and says: “Menelaus who?!”

Nico bursts out laughing.

*

It's the day of the match.

The boys are outside waiting for Galvani and his friends, but Nico and Marti are still in the locker rooms. Marti has told him five times already that this means nothing. It's just a friendly. No uniforms, no team names, no nothing. Just a match between friends.

Nico is still incredibly nervous.

He's played with Marti, he's played with the guys. He knows it's unlikely that his inexperience will be very noticeable, given how relaxed the setting will be.

Nico is still incredibly nervous.

“Maybe you should tie your hair back?” Marti's hands in his hair are soothing in a way he wasn't expecting. Nico relaxes his grip on the bench and leans forward against Marti's chest, who smiles and pushes Nico's fringe back and away from his face. “This bit here. It might get into your eyes.”

“I have nothing to tie it with.”

“I think Luca's got hair gel?”

Nico looks up at him, pulling a face, and Marti laughs.

Nico is very particular about what he puts in his hair. Not that he doesn't put a ton of stuff in it, he does – mostly so that the curls will keep and not die on him mid-morning – but it's got to be the right kind of stuff.

And hair gel is _never_ the right kind of stuff.

“I think I'll take my chances with the hair in my eyes, thanks,” Nico says, and Marti smiles.

He leans down for a kiss that Nico welcomes all too gladly.

“Good to know you still have your priorities in place.”

*

Right before the match starts, Gio comes over and pats Nico on the back.

“You'll be great, man,” he says confidently, and Nico almost believes him. He smiles gratefully as he watches Gio take his position in front of the goal, gloves in hand.

“Yeah, it'll be fine,” Elia echoes with a grin from Nico's left.

“Il Peccio who?” Luca offers, and Nico knows they're slightly overdoing it, but he appreciates the effort all the same.

Marti puts a hand on Nico's shoulder.

“Thank you for doing this, Ni,” he says, his tone intense but not overdramatic. Very Marti.

They stay like that as much as they dare to, Marti's hand squeezing Nico's shoulder gently, reassuringly – it looks casual enough from the outside – but they both know they have to let go at some point.

“You ready?” the referee asks, an eyebrow raised.

(Well, _referee._ It's just some guy who's friends with Galvani that Nico and the boys have never even met. How is any of this fair?)

Marti nods and lets go of Nico. He skips into position and Nico watches him jump excitedly in place. Nico is feeling so fond that for a moment he almost forgets what is about to happen.

He's brought back to Earth by the ref blowing his whistle.

 _Shit_ , it's started.

*

There are several things Nico doesn't get about football: the offside rule is one. Why referees seem to have such wildly different opinions on what constitutes a foul and what doesn't is another. But most importantly, Nico has always found baffling the way footballers are ready to throw hands at the most insignificant provocation.

After being kicked on the shin for the third time by the same guy in the span of ten minutes, though, Nico might be having an epiphany about that last one.

He's not one to throw hands, he never has been. But still. If _someone_ were to be tackled a bit harder than necessary as they tried to dribble their way to Gio's goal... well, that would just be the way football is, right?

They're currently tied, 2-2, but, weirdly enough, Nico has stopped worrying about his lack of technique after the first pass. The ball reached Luca fine, no one intercepted it, it didn't catch fire, no deluge of apocalyptic fish anywhere in sight.

Nico breathed and just... let go.

Maybe a bit too much, as he was largely responsible for the second goal. He miscalculated the trajectory of a forward pass from Shin Kicker, realised too late it was going to end up right on the striker's feet, and when Nico started running after him the guy was a full meter ahead of him already.

Gio could do nothing and they conceded.

It was disappointing, but at that point enough things had worked out fine that Nico, surprisingly enough, didn't feel like clawing his eyes out in regret. His therapist would call it perspective. Nico calls it a good day.

It helped than the boys did not bend over backwards trying to convince Nico that it wasn't his fault – if he knows himself at all, that would have backfired spectacularly.

After the break, Elia evened the score, and here they are now. 2-2.

And Nico is doing _fine._ Not feeling out of place, or constantly under scrutiny. Not obsessing over what Marti will think of him if he fucks up. Just... playing football like it's normal.

And maybe it can be.

The best thing about it, though, is still how happy it makes _Marti_.

He's very much in his element when he's playing. It's not even that he's spectacularly good at it or anything – he just enjoys it. Nico has had to remind himself several times that he's playing too, just so he won't get lost in Marti's smiles.

“Ni! Over here.”

The nickname still feels a bit weird in this context, but Nico smiles to himself as he passes the ball foward to Marti, managing to avoid Shin Kicker and his rough attempt at tackling him just in time.

That's when he sees it. The hole in the other team's defense.

There's Galvani, the other team's defender, who's practically glued to Elia, trying to prevent him from even seeing the ball. Nico understands: Elia has scored twice already. Nico would be focusing on Elia too if he were playing opposite him.

But Marti advancing quickly on the right wing drew the attention of both Shin Kicker and the other midfielder, who are now running after him. If only Marti could get the ball across... there would be no one but the goalkeeper defending the goal.

Nico starts running.

It's not necessarily his place to try and score, but Elia did go on a twenty-five minute rant at practice, the gist of which was “you see a chance, you take it”, so Nico feels like he's not overstepping too much.

He is still overstepping a bit, though, which is exactly why it happens... well, _like that._

Marti fakes a cross to get the first midfielder off him, and then crosses for real before Shin Kicker can catch up with him. Nico watches the ball approach, too high for him to control it with his foot and too low to jump and attempt a header.

He could try a bycicle kick, he supposes, but he's not sure how that's supposed to work and he would rather not break his neck, if at all possible.

So he improvises. Later the boys will scream at him about Spain vs Netherlands and the 2014 World Cup and some guy with a Dutch name Nico has never heard before, but for now all Nico can focus on is hitting the damn ball.

He jumps – only he jumps forwards instead of upwards, as the ball is almost exactly at his eye level. Surprisingly enough, Nico's head does hit the ball.

It also hits Luca's head, who had _exactly the same idea._

Nico falls on his stomach and for a moment the pain is all he can focus on, his palms scraped and aching for trying to break the fall with them, the left side of his head pounding heavily after clashing against Luca's.

He pulls himself up on his elbows with a groan.

“Nico! Nico... we scored!”

Luca's excited voice reaches him from what feels like a different dimension. Nico looks up and... yeah, the ball is beyond the line, the goalkeeper staring at him and Luca like he's not sure how they managed to beat him while almost destroying each other's skulls at the same time.

There's no way of knowing who touched the ball first. Or last.

Or even if they hit it at exactly the same time.

Nico pulls himself to his feet and grins at Luca, who's getting up too and massaging the right side of his head way too gleefully for someone whose head is probably pounding just as much as Nico's is right now.

“We did it! Luchì, we scored!”

“I know! Who needs Zeus, right?!”

“Ni! _Ni!_ ”

Nico turns around.

Marti is running towards him, smiling from ear to ear. He's running at full speed, his t-shirt flapping behind him, his arms open wide at his sides, clearly no intention of stopping anytime soon.

Nico has three sudden realisations in quick succession:

1) Oh my God, he's going to jump;  
2) What if I can't catch him? We're going to die;  
3) What a way to go, though.

Marti does jump.

He jumps and he throws his arms around Nico's neck, wrapping his legs around his waist. Nico holds his legs up and they wobble only a bit before Nico finds his feet. They both laugh. Marti is definitely not the heaviest, but, as he loves to point out at any chance he gets, he _is_ taller than Nico.

“You scored!” Marti shouts, right in Nico's ear. It makes him giggle.

“We did!”

“You fucking scored!”

“We fucking did!”

They look at each other for a long moment.

In a perfect world they would kiss, Nico thinks, focusing on the way smiling makes Marti's eyes crinkle and almost disappear behind his eyelids – but they are in the middle of a football match right now and they can't.

So they just smile, happy and grateful, and Nico lets go of Marti's legs so he can slide down. As he does, Marti hides a kiss in the crook of Nico's neck. It's a bit _too_ reckless, they know, and Nico has to make an effort not to pull Marti back against him.

Nico feels Luca hug him from behind, and he smiles as Elia and Gio come over to join the group hug.

“Fucking hell, guys,” Elia says with a grin. “That was some goal.”

“Who scored? I couldn't see,” Gio asks, an arm around Nico's shoulders, the other one ruffling Luca's hair.

“We don't know.” Nico laughs. “Both of us. Does it count at two goals?”

“Not fucking likely,” the other team's goalie cuts in, but his tone is teasing. “You guys are embarrassing, by the way. It looks like you just won the Champions League or something.”

Nico laughs and looks for Marti's eyes. They smile at each other.

This is so much better than winning the Champions League.


End file.
